


Jeyne and Bael are Dead

by WendyNerd



Series: Jeyne and Bael [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Braavos, F/M, Intrigue, Sequel, Stark reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Sequel to Jeyne and Bael. Arya's arrival means a lot more is catching up with Jeyne and Bael.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Buttercup-bee for her help!

Jeyne and Bael Are Dead

 

Arya:

After months in Braavos, Arya is used to the heat. What she’s forgotten is warmth. The sort of warmth she found in the North during the summer snows, curled up around the roaring fire after a day of playing with her siblings. The sort of warmth could only come from being with those she loves.

Despite her determination to be “No One”, shortly after regaining her sight, Arya had ventured down to some of the immigrant neighborhoods, particularly the Frostside, the area known for housing the Northern Westerosi. She’d not expected to find anyone she knew, but she missed the North and its people. She wanted a slice of home.

When she first caught a glimpse of Sansa, Arya had been sure she was mistaken. Certainly, she merely saw what she wanted to see, that it was just the red hair. She tried to make herself forget it and stayed away from Frostside. She was supposed to be No One now. She had no sister, no brothers, no half-brother.

But then she was assigned a mission to take out a pirate who frequented the Broken Drum. The Broken Drum was in the lower business district, one of the “improving” commerce areas that once was only for the poorest and criminals, but in recent months had gained a better reputation.

Arya found the drunken sot quickly enough, though rather than sitting at a table in the tavern drinking deep, he was on his arse outside the door, his breeches wet with urine. Arya had flirted with him, offering him a sip of wine from her flask.

“The Old Gods and New bless you, Sweet’eart,” he slurred, taking the flask, “Used to be the Broken Drum was a place where a man could get a nosh without trouble. But now that bloody Andal Beast comes in and snobs up the place, throwing good men like meself out on the streets. Fuckin’ immigrants.”

Part of Arya’s job was to observe and report news from the Braavosi streets. She had a little time before the poison started taking effect. “Andal Beast?”

“Bael the Beast, they call him. The Broken Drum’s new muscle. Immigrant from the North of Westeros. Not a big man, but he’s able to tear people apart. Not that that’s all that impressive, given how sloshed the clientele is. I reckon if I had my bearings, I could rip the fucker apart.”

“Indeed.”

The drunk smiles at her, displaying at least three gaps where teeth should be. “Ya like a strong man, don’t ya, Darlin’?”

“Aye. Tell you what, Handsome,” she told him, “How about you finish up that vino, and I’ll go give that stupid foreigner a shiner for you?”

The drunk raised his flask enthusiastically. “I can just tell you’re the type of wench a man might leave the sea for.”

She winked at him and entered the tavern, eyes darting around to catalogue her environment and the people.

And, in a corner by the bar, arms crossed, there he was.

Jon.

There was no fooling herself this time. As impossible as it seemed, it was Jon. Arya would know him anywhere.

She’d panicked and bolted from the tavern before he caught sight of her. She still isn’t sure why.

This was the reunion she’d dreamt of for years now.

But for whatever reason, she kept some distance. If Jon was in Braavos, it was for a good reason. And it meant he left the Watch. Leaving the Watch was an offense punishable by death. She couldn’t imagine why Jon would desert the Wall and dishonor himself like that, though. It frightened her.

She found herself gathering up as much information on ‘Bael the Beast’, though. And it shocked her.

While immigrants to Braavos were not banned, there was enough of them for there to be a stigma attached to them, especially to those from Westeros. Westerosi were seen as brutal and unsophisticated. The only thing that could be said of them was that at least they weren’t slavers.

But, as it turned out, ‘Bael the Beast’, despite his nickname and the relatively short time he’d lived in Braavos, was considered one of the ‘good ones.’ Him and his wife. When Arya had heard ‘wife’, she nearly fainted. But yes, it turned out Bael the Beast had a wife, a stunning, talented young woman who had become popular among even the elite for the gowns she made. Madam Jeyne, ‘Litses Andalis’, she was called.

When Arya heard a description of Madam Jeyne, she’d been shaken. Red hair, blue eyes, tall, high cheekbones, long neck, dainty and ladylike despite her low station. And sure enough, when Arya went to visit Madam Tanzel’s dress shop, there she was.

Sansa. Older, taller, even prettier than she’d been when Arya saw her last, running a measuring ribbon along the shoulders of a courtesan.

And, once again, without really knowing why, Arya bolted away.

 _I’m No One. No One._ She told herself, tears in her eyes. She tried to keep away, focus on her training. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps Jon and Sansa were dead---- Sansa was wanted for killing Joffrey, after all--- and their faces had been taken. Perhaps this was yet another cruel test of the Kindly Man and the Waif.

She’d been fairly successful staying away too. But then she was assigned Lady Crane.

And once more, there was Sansa in the crowd. And for once, Arya couldn’t focus on the performance. No, instead her eyes were locked on her sister, watching the play with Ritsa, one of the more famous courtesans in Northern Braavos.

When the show ended, Arya stayed perched on that balcony, straining to hear the conversation her sister was having. She heard Sansa’s words, not just her voice, but her words, and every piece of her broken heart as Sansa told Ritsa the truth of the matter.

Arya felt her heart break, especially when she learned new details. Her sister had been raped, by the same family that betrayed and murdered Robb. She’d returned to Winterfell only to suffer unbelievable torment and violation there at the hands of Roose Bolton’s son.

If this was a trick, it was an even crueler one than Arya could have imagined.

But, as she crouched there, processing everything, all of a sudden, Sansa’s head turned. And Arya knew. She was seen. Maybe not recognized, but seen.

She’d darted to the nearest hiding space, but couldn’t bring herself to leave. Instead, she found a more discreet vantage point to view her sister, who looked so shaken as to make her companion fuss over her.

Arya couldn’t help herself, she followed them. She followed the courtesan’s litter to a pretty, quaint gold and red house in Frostside, and observed it from a nearby rooftop. Attendants of Lady Ritsa bustled in and out of the house and before long, Jon was racing down the street, looking stricken.

Before she knew it, she was in the small yard behind the house, overlooking the harbor, crouching in the branches of an apple tree conveniently positioned right by the bedchamber window. Sansa was reclining on a linen-draped bed, Jon beside her. Lady Ritsa and her people eventually left, and Arya watched her siblings in amazement.

Sansa knew someone was watching her, that someone knew who she was. Jon spoke of being approached by some Magister from Pentos. Both of them were panicked, and decided they had to leave as soon as possible. Plans and arguments came next, Jon insisting on selling “Longclaw”, which turned out to be a disguised Valyrian steel sword, and apparently not the only Valyrian sword they had with them.

What struck Arya was how they treated one another. Jon and Sansa had never been particularly close as children. Sansa always sensed her mother’s animosity towards Jon, and didn’t like to reach out to him when there was a chance Lady Catelyn might find out. Usually, the only solitary moments she ever had with Jon were when Lady Catelyn was away for some reason.

Also, the two never had much in common anyways. Sansa was femininity incarnate, lover of songs, fashion, art, and romance. She didn’t like fighting or messiness or anything of that sort. Jon was devoted to martial activities, and had no time or interest in courtly matters.

Now, though…

Jon doesn’t treat Sansa the way he treated Arya. He knew better than to muss Sansa’s hair or tease her or rough-house with her. His behavior towards Sansa, in fact, is nothing like even the most doting brothers Arya’s seen. Robb, proper as he was, didn’t treat Sansa like this. He loved her, sure, and he was protective of her, but there was never any hint of…

Reverence, almost. Jon gazed at Sansa, tended to her like she was a priceless treasure, a lifeline, and almost a sort of hero rolled into one. Sansa displayed a similar attitude. She showed no hint of being displeased by the sweat on his brow or his dirty fingers. She looked at him as if she were afraid to let him out of his sight, like he was some sort of dream she couldn’t stand to wake from. Though he was the one tending to her, Arya noted how her sister’s own actions seemed to anticipate and accommodate him.

And for two people who had never been close, they both seemed utterly in sync with one another, anticipating the other’s thoughts, needs, words, and actions. Both acted with utter selflessness where the other was involved, their only conflict seeming to be who should make what sacrifice.

Sansa offered to sell her hair if it meant Jon could keep his sword. Such a thing was unthinkable.

But, finally, Jon wore her down. He would sell the sword to finance their move, and they’d proceed with their agreed upon plans.

At one point, Jon mentions Oathkeeper, which confuses Arya further. That was Brienne of Tarth’s sword, was it not? How did they have that?

But listening to them, seeing them together, Arya knows this is no trick. It’s truly them.

Perhaps she should have revealed herself then and there. Because as joyous as this discovery was, it proceeded to take a shocking turn.

When the two of them got into bed together, Arya wondered to herself why it bothered her. They’d all shared beds at certain points as children, and it made sense that the two of them, as scared as they clearly were, would keep one another close. If Arya had a choice, she’d have climbed right in with them, sandwiching herself between them and burying her face in Jon’s neck and her hand in Sansa’s silky hair.

But there was something… different… about this. She wasn’t sure what it was at first. But then…

Arya tried to tell herself that this was a dream. That she had fallen asleep in the apple tree and was dreaming this. But she wasn’t. The kiss Jon and Sansa shared was nothing that would happen between brother and sister. They said so themselves that they wanted to be Jeyne and Bael, husband and wife, not brother and sister.

Arya has to look away when they begin removing their clothes. She covers her ears, blocking out their moans and grunts. No. No. This can’t be happening.

She stares at the sky when they finish, wondering if perhaps she should go back to the House of Black and White. Perhaps there was nothing for her with them. Maybe she really was meant to be no one, and they’re meant to be Jeyne and Bael.

But then she hazarded another glimpse at them, and her heart melts. Despite the awkwardness of their nudity, the way they hold each other draws tears to Arya’s eyes. And she knows that if she allows her feelings over how their relationship has changed to keep her from reuniting with them, that she’ll never forgive herself.

She’ll never be No One. Jon and Sansa could be whatever they wanted to one another, but Arya would always be their sister.

So she follows Jon the next day as he sets out to sell Longclaw. She follows him as he finds and meets with a buyer, whom she actually recognizes. A merchant prince whose manse she’s scouted. The sale goes underway, and as Jon starts home with the chest of gold, Arya follows the Prince back to his palace.

Arya has never seen Longclaw before, but she could tell by both Sansa’s desperation that Jon keep it and Jon’s own expression when he handed it over that it was important.

It takes her all night to break into the prince’s treasury, retrieve the sword, and then fetch Needle from the harbor outside the House of Black and White. The city is lit by red-orange sunlight when she finally makes it back to Frostside, and her heart races. Despite her exhaustion, she runs. What if it is too late? Jon and Sansa said they’d need a couple of days before they left, but what if they changed their minds? What if she missed her chance? Again.

Arya sighs with relief when she sees some of their half-packed belongings in the yard. She climbs the apple tree to find them still asleep, and, smiling slightly, places the heavy blade at the foot of the bed and departs for their entry chamber.

Once there, she collapses onto a cushioned bench, trying to catch her breath. Everything aches. But she’s here.

She almost falls asleep when a shriek rouses her. Moments later, Jon charges into the room, blade drawn.

He stops short when he sees her. Both of them say nothing. They just stare. Jon rubs his eyes, as if he fears she’s a dream.

Arya still takes some time to catch her breath before she can even speak. When she does, she smiles. “I got your sword back.”

Next thing she knows, the weapon is on the ground and she is swept up in his arms. Both of them sob. She buries her face in his neck.

“Little sister,” he says, reaching up to muss her hair.

Jon sits them both on the bench, stroking her hair. Arya doesn’t mind, now that she’s here, with him, she can allow her exhaustion to take over.

“I feared you were dead,” he tells her, “How are you in Braavos?”

“I thought you were at The Wall,” Arya retorts, “How are you and Sansa in Braavos.”

“It’s a long story,” they say in unison before laughing.

“I can’t believe this,” he says, reaching out to muss her hair again.

“Believe it.” Unable to help herself, she throws herself into his arms for another hug. It’s just like she remembered.

They don’t need to tell each other everything just yet. Arya isn’t sure she’s capable of it. She’s not sure Jon is. So they sit, holding one another.

They’re interrupted by the funniest thing Arya’s ever seen: Sansa, clad in only a light shift, running into the room with a sword raised above her head. Her grip is awkward, and her eyes are wide.

She nearly faints when she sees her.

The two sisters’ eyes meet, and a thousand things are communicated silently.

“Arya?”

“Sansa.” The younger Stark sister pulls herself to her feet and goes to hug her sister. They both weep.

“It’s you,” her sister says softly, “Truly.”

They part and Arya nods, hardly able to believe it herself. “Truly. I… I couldn’t believe it. When I saw you the other day, I thought I was dreaming.”

Sansa wipes her eyes. “I feel like I’m dreaming now. How… What…?”

“It’s a long story.” Arya feels the last of her energy hanging on by a thread. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise, but I---” She sways. “I haven’t slept in days and I---”

She’s caught from behind, and Jon gathers her up. “Come on then, to bed with you.”

The two of them bring her to their bed. Sansa actually tucks her in.

Her last thought before losing consciousness is how easily she can mistake them for Mother and Father.

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

The Gods are cruel. Jon has known that for a long time. To be reunited with his little siser under these circumstances is a nasty twist of fate.

He paces in the entry chamber, wringing his hands as Sansa sits on the bench and frets.

“You were discreet with the sale, correct?”

“Extremely. And so was he.”

“Which means the moment they’ve weeded out the servants, the first place he’ll look for the sword is right here.” Sansa shakes her head miserably.

Jon grinds his teeth. It was a lovely gesture on Arya’s part to get Longclaw back, but it would bring a whole host of problems now. Despite the fact that Sansa isn’t being followed by a hostile force, they’re still in danger. Perhaps more danger than they imagined the day before.

“The Braavosi didn’t become rich by paying for nothing. Even if we managed to dispose of it somehow, we’d still be under suspicion. Even if he never proves anything, he may still want his gold back. And it’ll bring more attention down on us. Word will get out. People will wonder where we got Valyrian Steel. And if people find out the name of the damn thing, we’ll be exposed.”

“Arya managed to steal it from Prince Savin’s manse, what if we found a way to put it back?”

“Security there will be far more extreme once they find it’s missing.” Jon cringes. “Perhaps if we were to stash it somewhere known to house elite thieves. Certain groups often do make general runs in the houses of the rich. It’s plausible that a career thief, intending to rob Savin’s treasury of some gold, came across the blade and took that instead. I know of a few places where people like that stay.”

“Why would you know a thing like that?”

Jon gives Sansa a look. “I work in a tavern, remember? It’s good to keep an ear out in such places.”

“Right.” She blushes. “How quickly do you think you could dispose of it?”

“I’m not sure. Thieves are very protective of their territory. And it’s not like I’ve given the petty criminals of Braavos any reason to ignore or like me.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “What if I went?”

“What?!” He gapes at her.

“What if I took the sword and left it at the thieves’ den? I disguise myself as a beggar or something and leave Longclaw in a barrel outside their home.”

“You honestly think I’d let you do something that dangerous?”

“You could follow me.”

“And leave Arya here alone?”

Sansa bites her lip, stifling the curse that was likely playing on her lips. “You disguise yourself then.”

“I don’t want to leave the two of you home alone here at night. Especially if a Prince’s justice is heading here.”

“I could invite Ritsa here. If the Prince’s men come, she’ll be here to swear up and down that I am deathly ill. She has status in this city, her word won’t be challenged so easily.”

“There’s no way you’re getting a courtesan here on such short notice.”

Sansa takes deep breath. “Jon, either you let me do this, or we’re doomed. Please, I---”

Jon shakes his head. “I did not take you across the Narrow Sea just to send you to a den of criminals.”

“You never had a problem with me walking about Castle Black on my own, and that was a den of criminals! Rapers, even!”

“That’s because you had Brienne with you. Now we don’t even have Ghost.”

“Jon, the choice is taking a risk that I’ll be attacked and need you to intercede on my behalf, or wait for a small army of princely guards to come and take us all. One is a risk, the other is a certainty. Either way, I’m not safe. And we’re running out of time. Which do you prefer?”

Jon groans. She’s right.

“What of Arya?” He protests weakly.

“She’s been sleeping all day. Time to wake her. We have little choice.”

Fair enough. Jon’s stomach sinks. But before the two of them can return to the bedchamber, they hear the sounds of hooves on gravel coming from the front of their house. Jon’s blood runs cold. They’re here. He glares at Sansa.

“Hurry! Hide! Yourself and this thing!” He says, grabbing Longclaw from the low table and thrusting it into her hands.

“Where?”

“Throw it in the ocean if you have to! Go!”

“OPEN UP!” A voice yells from outside, pounding on their front door, “IN THE NAME OF THE PRINCE SAVIN, OPEN THIS DOOR!”

Jon looks into Sansa’s eyes. “Hide it and get into bed, Sansa. And if they find it, you’re to claim ignorance, you understand? You’ve never so much as seen any Valyrian Steel before. You don’t know where I got it, you don’t know what’s happening, you’ve been ill this whole time. You’re an innocent dressmaker watching her husband fall from grace.”

“Jon, I---”

“---- _Promise me.”_

She doesn’t. Instead she turns on her heel and runs for the bedchamber. Stomach sinking, Jon makes his way to the door miserably.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jon says, feigning shock as best he can as he greets the collection of armored guards in Savin’s green and blue livery. He meets the gaze of the head guard. He knows the man, who had stood behind his master as the sale was made. “I finished my business with your master yesterday.”

“Oh, is that what you call it, Westerosi scum?” The main guard sneers. “Business? We call it a con!”

“How dare you!” Jon replies furiously, “I gave him a more than fair price. That blade was one hundred percent real, a Qohorik smith verified it right in front of your master!”

“Oh, the blade was real alright, which is why you were so eager to get it back, I’m sure!”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know very well, Andal. You stole it!”

Jon glares. “Are you mad? How in Seven Hells could I steal anything from a MErchant Prince of Braavos?”

“You were the only person who knew he had it!”

Jon actually snorts. “I doubt that. Your master has an army of servants, and no doubt there are several spies among them. Nothing important men do stay secret for long.”

“If you didn’t take it, then where have you been since last night?”

“Here! Tending to my wife! I mentioned to Prince Savin that she was ill, and there are numerous people who can bear witness to that. The Lady Ritsa was even the one who brought her home!”

The head guard bristles somewhat. “Well, if you have nothing to hide, then you won’t mind if we search your home.”

“I do indeed! Are your ears waxed shut? My wife is sick! And this is our home! We are free people who have done nothing wrong. You have no right to invade my house like this!”

“I am here on behalf of a Prince of Braavos!”

“Even Princes have to respect the rights of ordinary citizens in this city, or is that a lie?”

“Indeed.” The man’s eyes narrow. “But it just so happens, Master Bael, that you don’t own this dwelling, and that my master has already sent word to your landlord. You have no right to resist us searching another man’s house. Step aside now, and we’ll be in and out quickly. Keep blocking the way, and I’ll see to it that you and your wife are thrown out into the street.”

Jon curses and pray silently that Sansa found a good place to hide the sword. “Very well, but if you or your men break anything or lay a hand on my family, you and your master shall answer for it.”

Reluctantly, he steps aside, and half a dozen men file into the house. Their leader makes his way down the hall at once, and Jon follows him, heart in his throat.

The intruder throws open the door to the bedchamber. Sansa and Arya are in bed, Sansa in only a sheer shift now. Both sit up at once, holding the linens to their chests and looking horrified.

“Bael, what is going on?” Sansa asks, her tone so perfect Jon almost believes her bewilderment.

“It’s nothing, Jeynie,” he says, “A misunderstanding. These idiots think I stole something from their master.”

To the head guard’s credit, he does stay still and bow when he sees the women, and his tone softens. “Forgive me, Madam, but on the orders of Merchant Prince Savin, my men and I must inspect your home. Who is the young woman with you?”

“My good-sister, Alys,” Sansa replies, wrapping her arms around Arya protectively, “She just arrived here from Westeros. Forgive our state, but we’ve both been ill. Surely, Master---?”

“Horace, Madam.”

“Master Horace, surely you can’t really think my husband is capable of stealing anything? He’s a good man, an honorable man. Ask anyone in Frostside. Or in the Thimble District. He’s the very opposite of a criminal.”

“I certainly hope you’re right, Madam, and if you are, then I promise you, there’s nothing to fear. I promise to be in and out of here as quickly as possible.”

The two women glance at one another. Sansa sighs.

“Would you mind turning your back for a moment? Neither of us are decent.”

Horace acquiesces. Sansa and Arya slip out of bed and Sansa puts on her robe and drapes Arya in Jon’s. Tears pour down Arya’s face in rivers. _‘I’m so sorry’_ she mouths to Jon.

Horace starts with their wardrobe, brushing aside hanging clothes and checking the shelves. He calls another man in to help him rummage around the room as the three Starks stand in the corner. Jon looks into Sansa’s eyes, wondering where she may have hidden the thing. It was a bastard blade, too heavy for one hand and of considerable length. Not exactly the easiest thing to conceal.

Horace retrieves Oathkeeper from the cabinet and examines it carefully. “What is this?”

“My good blade, now that I no longer have the one I sold your master.”

Sansa pretends to be confused. “Bael, what do you mean? That’s always been your best blade! What did you sell to Prince Savin?!”

Horace looks over at Sansa. “Perhaps your husband isn’t as honest and honorable as you think, Madam Jeyne. Yesterday evening, Master Bael here sold Prince Savin a genuine Valyrian steel sword that he’d brought with him from Westeros. This morning, it was missing from my master’s treasure room. No one knew the sale had been made but my master, myself, a few select servants, and your husband.”

“That’s impossible!” Sansa sputters. “My husband was a stablehand and common soldier before he came here. Not even our lord had a Valyrian steel blade. How could Bael possibly have one?”

“That’s a question for him. But I assure you, Madam, I saw it with my own eyes. And now it is missing. Perhaps there are some things about Master Bael’s life in Westeros that you don’t know.”

“I’ve known Bael my entire life,” she insists, “We learned our letters from the same village maester. His father taught us to ride on the same pony!”

Jon sees what she’s doing. She’s distracting the men, stalling them.

It’s only now that Jon glances at the birdcage Sansa keeps by the bedchamber window. She’d bought herself a trained carrier pigeon several weeks back. But the bird is missing. He and Sansa exchanged glances again. Who had she called for?

Master Horace grunts. “That’s… lovely, Madam. But that doesn’t change the fact that your husband did indeed sell Prince Savin a Valyrian steel blade. You said he was a soldier, perhaps he acquired it during the war somehow. However he cam by it the first time, if he came by it a second, it was through theft.”

All of a sudden, Jon feels her hand make contact with the back of his head. Hard.

“Seven Hells!” He shouts, clutching it.

“Filthy fool of a man!” Sansa shrieks, rounding on him. She continues to hit him. “How could you do this to me? Keeping something like this from me all this time?! Letting me slave away for hours upon hours in that damn dress shop, all while you were hoarding such a treasure?! YOU PROMISED THERE WERE NO SECRETS BETWEEN US! THAT YOU WOULD NEVER LIE TO ME! YOU BLOODY LIAR!”

Jon backed away blocking her blows. But she kept coming at him.

“I’VE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING! I RAN AWAY WITH YOU! I LEFT MY HOME! MY FAMILY! AND ALL THIS TIME YOU WERE LYING! I HAVE WORKED SO HARD TO BUILD A LIFE HERE, A HOME HERE, AND YOU BRING ARMED MEN TO OUR DOOR?! YOU PROMISED COMING HERE WOULD MEAN SAFETY! AND YOU DO THIS?!”

She attacks him with a fire, a rage he’s never seen from her before. He wonders if she’s channeling all of her pent up pain into this display.

Regardless, it’s effective. Both guards hurry over to try restrain her. Jon is impressed by how well she struggles. He struggles to gain his composure, then charges at them.

“GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF OF MY SS---SWEET JEYNE!!!!” He roars, launching himself at them. He almost called her his “Sansa.”

Even though he knows, on a rational level, that these men are merely trying to safely restrain who they see as a violent, hysterical woman, it matters. Jon lunges at them with genuine emotion. Seeing any man grab Sansa, regardless of the circumstances, unleashes a beast within him.

“STOP IT!” Arya now jumps him, grabbing Jon and yanking him back by the collar of his tunic. More men run in and soon, Jon is lost in a flurry of grips.

Finally, everyone breaks apart. Jon gasps and glares at Horace. “You bloody promised me that you wouldn’t lay a hand on my family!”

The head guard is gasping as well. He looks at Jon with wide eyes. “She was attacking you!”

“She’s weighs practically half a stone! I’m a tavern guard, for pity’s sake! I throw seven foot drunken pirates off of each other every night! You think my wife is a threat? Even if she was capable of truly hurting me, she wouldn’t!”

Horace actually looks astonished. But he does hesitate. This is Braavos, after all. Even immigrants have rights. And if word got out that Prince Savin’s guard manhandled a poor immigrant woman, especially one with the reputation of Letsis Andalis, it would cause serious problems for his master. Serious problems for his master meant serious problems for him.

“I… It is my job to keep the peace wherever my duties take me.”

“You’re doing an excellent job,” Jon retorts, hurrying to Arya’s side. “Are you alright?”

Arya nods. Jon goes to help Sansa up. He kisses her cheeks. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

She sobs. “Bael, what is happening? You promised me that we were leaving all of this behind! This place was supposed to be better than Westeros!”

“I’m so sorry,” he babbles. He hugs both women to him and glares at Horace. “I wish I had stolen that thing back! A man who would send goons to attack sick, innocent women doesn’t deserve such a weapon!”

All of the guards begin to protest when there’s a disturbance coming from the entry hall. Jon’s heart swells.

“What now?” Arya murmurs miserably.

“HORACE?!” The voice of Merchant Prince Savin echoes from the front hall. “COME TO ME AT ONCE!”

The guard obeys at once. The Starks follow the men to the front hall to find Prince Savin, their Landlord, Prince Rumes, Lady Ritsa, and----

Jon’s blood goes cold. Standing beside the courtesan, cradling her slender arm on his enormously fat one, is the Pentosi. The Magister who had offered him that job weeks ago.

Illyrio Mopatis gazes upon the Starks with piggy eyes.

“Horace, you are to cease this now. I have… Solid evidence that Master Bael is not responsible for the theft of my blade.”

“You do?!” Horace’s eyes practically burst out of his head. “Since when?! You were so sure---”

“I was mistaken. Thankfully, Magister Illyrio here was able to set me to rights.”

The Pentosi grunts and grins. “I’ve made powerful connections among the upper and lower classes of the Free Cities. And just this afternoon I received word that a thieves’ guild was offering up a Valyrian blade matching the description of Prince Savin’s to the highest bidder. My men are seeking out to retrieve the sword and capture the criminals as we speak. On the honor of my reputation as both a gentleman and a master of secrets, I assure you that Master Bael is innocent of this.”

Prince Savin, his usually sallow face crimson, comes forward. “Master Bael, I apologize for this misunderstanding, for disturbing you and doubting your honor.”

Jon can barely speak. “I… Of course, My Lord.”

Savin makes a point of bowing to Sansa and Arya and kissing their hands. “Ladies, please forgive me for disturbing you.”

“You’re forgiven, Prince Savin,” Sansa replies. She pretends to glower at Jon. “This experience has brought a few things to light at the very least.”

Jon says nothing.

“Has anything been broken?” Rumes asks. He was a responsible landlord who prided himself on the protection and service he offered his tenants. His reputation was built upon that. He glanced at the guards and at Savin with irritation.

“Nothing, My Lord. Aside from my pride.”

“Horace, you and your men are to put anything you disturbed back where you found it,” Savin says, “Master Bael, I apologize once again.”

“Apology accepted,” Jon says tensely, “But if you would all excuse us---”

“Of course.”

Sansa and Ritsa exchange smiles as their visitors file out. Both Sansa and Arya relax.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Arya says when they’re all gone. “I never meant to cause any trouble. I just wanted to get your sword back.”

“We know, Arya.” Sansa hugs her sister, but something flashes in her eyes.

“Jon, did… Did Savin call that man ‘Magister’? Isn’t---”

“That’s what the lords of Pentos are called,” Jon says, shaking, “And yes, that man vouched for us for a reason. He… He was the one who approached me at the Broken Drum.”

Sansa’s eyes widen. “Oh, gods. We… We have to get out. Now. We have to---”

She starts for the bedchamber. Jon reads her intentions from her anxious steps. She intends to go back there, shove everything she can into whatever container she can carry, even though she knows as well as he does how futile that is at this point. He reaches out and takes her wrist.

“Sansa---”

“Jon, there’s no time! He… He…”

“He’s probably sitting in a litter just down the street right now, waiting for the perfect moment to come back here. His men are watching the house, no doubt.”

Jon can barely stand up straight. He feels like he’s being stabbed again. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Sansa. It’s… It’s over.”

He should have told her the very day Illyrio came to the Broken Drum. Then, maybe, they’d have had a chance. But no. That chance is gone. He’s failed her.

Sobbing, Sansa crumbles into his arms, clutching at his chest.

“I won’t…” She says, “I won’t let him take me again. I’ll die first, Jon. I will.”

Jon holds her, trying to hold back tears. “Arya…” He manages to croak out, “Leave now. Get out.”

“What?”

“Now!” He shouts furiously. “Leave while you still can!”

“No, I won’t---”

“You will!” He shouts furiously. “You may still have a chance, and you’ll fucking take it! We haven’t struggled this much to let them take us all! Leave! Go… Take Oathkeeper and find a way back to Westeros. Find Brienne of Tarth. Find Bran and Rickon. Get our home back. If you care at all for us, you’ll do this! Now GET OUT!”

His heart rips itself in two as he watches her run away, weeping. Jon gives Arya time to take the sword and go before leading Sansa back to their bedchamber. “Where’s Longclaw?” He asks her.

“Under the mattress.”

He retrieves it and the two of them curl up together on the bed. They wait. The sun begins to set. Jeyne and Bael are dead.

Eventually, finally, they hear the front door open. There’s a knock at the bedchamber door.

“If I may?” A sickeningly deep voice calls from the other side.

Jon says nothing. It’s not like it matters.

The man waits for a short while, then finally pushes the door open. He heaves as he walks, clearly exhausted. Mopatis is an enormous man, fatter even than Lord Manderly. At the Broken Drum, he’d needed two chairs to accommodate his massive backside. He smiles at Jon and Sansa with yellow, crooked teeth, and his eyes glitter as brightly as the rings on his fingers.

“Good evening. This certainly has been an exciting day, hasn’t it?”

Jon pulls away from Sansa just enough to hold Longclaw aloft, blade pointing towards his enemy. “I won’t let you have her,” he says, “I’ll kill a thousand men before I let the Lannisters or Boltons take her again.”

At this, Illyrio places his hands on his belly and begins to issuing large, bellowing laughs. “You… You think I… By Gods, young man, you are entirely mistaken!”

“Littlefinger, then. Tell Littlefinger he’ll never have her again.”

Illyrio continues to laugh, wiping tears of mirth from his piggy eyes. “L-Littlefinger! Honestly!” He starts moving towards the bed again.

“Take another step, and you’re dead!” Jon snarls.

Illyrio doesn’t seem threatened by this, but he does stop and hold his hands up. “Alright now, there’s no need to get violent---”

“I disagree.”

Illyrio grins. “You know, I definitely see it now. You don’t have the coloring, but you definitely have the fire. Magnificent.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “Whatever tricks you’re up to, Mopatis, I have nothing to lose, so don’t think I won’t---”

“---Oh, so you don’t care if you lose little Lady Arya?”

Jon can’t breathe anymore.

“Yes, Jon, we have her. Of course we do. She’s a sly one, true. She has a thousand tricks. Very clever. But I’m the one who invented half her tricks. And you had her take the other Valyrian blade with her too, very sweet.”

“Don’t you dare hurt her!” Sansa shouts, glaring at Illyrio.

“I assure you, Lady Sansa, I mean your sister no harm. But I shall dare if I must.”

Sansa shuts her eyes. “Fine,” she says, “I’ll… I’ll go with you. Just let her and Jon go.”

At this, Illyrio snorts. “That’s very noble of you, My Lady. Truly. I’m touched. But I’m afraid that the two of you have completely misread this situation. While I won’t deny that both you and your sister could be great assets, neither of you are my primary goal.”

Jon stares. “Then what---?”

Illyrio meets his eyes. “I’m not here to take these sweet ladies back to those lunatics, Jon. No, I’m here for you.”

Jon gapes. “What?! What could you possibly want with me?”

Illyrio begins to walk towards him again. “It’s not what I want with you, Jon, it’s what I want _for_ you.”

With deep, shuddering breaths, Illyrio slowly gets to his knees. “Eddard Stark lied to protect you. You’re the son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Seven Realms. The last son of House Targaryen. And I, Illyrio Mopatis, have come to restore you to your birthright.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys like it! If so, I may continue this!


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